


New Name, New Purpose Thanks to a Promise

by halduronbrightwang



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Alcohol, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Dying wishes, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Minor Character Death, suramar campaign
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 00:30:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15569772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halduronbrightwang/pseuds/halduronbrightwang
Summary: At any time, one may have an encounter that ends their life. At any time, one may also have one that changes theirs forever. For Di'Elgrin, the former happening to a stranger leads to the latter for himself.And it all lead to this, because of a bag of hooch.





	New Name, New Purpose Thanks to a Promise

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for minor character death and violence, typical of World of Warcraft.

“It seems it’s just you and me now.” Leaves were shoved aside, revealing a dwindling pile of supplies hidden within the bush. The nightborne, Di’Elgrin, lifted a leather sack, bloated from the contents within fermenting freely for weeks. It was a ritual at this point, to gather any fruit he could and add it to the stash, mixed with anything that could potentially turn into liquor when left to its own devices in the cool shade. Occasionally, for the sake of trying, he would toss in a few ley crystals to try and turn it into arcwine. It never worked, though the attempt brought him some comfort in staving off the inevitable fate of the other exiles- turning into Withered. 

Di’Elgrin quickly scaled the nearby tree to hide among its leaves. Like a leopard, dragging away its meal to the safety away from scavengers, he hid from the Duskwatch and Felborne that patrolled the thicket, looking for any escapees from the city. Escapees and rebels, like him. Those who wore the Dusklily were under threat more than ever as Elisande’s attempts to keep control over Suramar’s citizens failed and her power waned- as more and more joined the resistance and took up arms against her. The arrival of the Horde and Alliance’s troops were both a blessing and a curse- while they gave supplies and helped keep the most desperate of them from starving, they also made the Felborne more aggressive, more cruel, more hungry for power and they took it out on the poor citizens who could do little to resist their cruelties. 

In some ways, the nightborne was glad. Exiled after finally having been caught, again, supporting Thalyssra from within and amongst Elisande’s own forces, he no longer had to worry about the peculiarities of Suramar life. For an aspiring actor, he hated the constant act one had to put on in front of others, playing pretend that they were better than they were and false claims to a higher status than one ever could hope to reach. It was simply exhausting. No wonder, in the end, he became an alcoholic, wasting the last of his rations to make prison grade hooch in the woods, with hunger gnawing away at his body as it devoured itself. Gazing down into a puddle collecting at the roots of the tree, he hardly recognized himself. His face was pallor, skin sagging from so much fat and muscle lost in a desperate attempt to keep himself alive, his torso nearly a skeleton. If it were not for the fact he was still aware of himself, what really separated himself from the Withered? More than at first glance, a long look at him by an outsider may not even reveal that he was not one of them. 

Something moved to the west, something barreling through the underbrush. It drew closer and as it did the sound of shouts and orders caught his ears. Di’Elgrin sunk down low to the branch, clutching his bag of lousy liquor for dear life as he ascended backwards up the branch, deeper into the leaves. A Kal’dorei burst from a bush, her skin torn by thorns that ripped at her as she ran. Suddenly and without warning she spun, drawing a strange weapon from her back and another, long shafted and feathered thing from her hip which suddenly launched itself into the ticket, piercing someone who let out a scream.

It took the Nightborne a moment to recognize the weapon as a bow and arrow. He’d never seen one before the shield fell but heard stories about them, how primitive they were, how inferior compared to magic fueled missiles and lances that tore apart the fabric of space and time itself. Still, no matter how old or inferior, the weapon easily cut down the Felborne who chased the Kal’dorei huntress down and it did it with an elegance he’d never seen in such a weapon before. Unfortunately, for the woman, her bow was little help to her at close range, cornered and with Elisande’s lackies closing in. In a last ditch effort to save her skin, she drew a dagger, swiping left and right, for the throat and groin, all to save her own life.

It ended soon enough, a flick of the fel-twisted polearm and she was disarmed, the weapons clattering noisily into the trunk of the tree, and the death wound was dealt. To his surprise, she managed to take out quite a few of them, the last with grievous wounds that probably would spell their doom before they managed to retreat back to the city. Di’Elgrin peered down from the tree, careful to not make a sound louder than the wind through the leaves as he brushed them aside. The Night Elf woman was still alive, although barely. Her blood melded in with the rusted red grass below, so much that even an experienced priest may not even be able to save her. It was a shame, really. Her armor looked nothing like that of the Moonguard to the north, nor like that of the ghostly Night Elves in Farondis’ court. She had to be an outlander, one of the many thousands who’d come here for the purpose of helping his people and to free them from Elisande’s tyranny. He thought of the family she may have had that may never know how she met her end- broken, alone, bleeding to death on the forest floor. Not even granted a quick death by her murderers who shambled off to lick their wounds or succumb to them in turn. 

The woman’s eyes flickered up to the sky, a whispered prayer to Elune leaving her lips until she spotted him, looking down at her. Di’Elgrin looked into the eyes of the Sentinel in fear, fear that she may think he one of the ones who did this to her and scorn him with her dying breaths, or worse, scorn him for not intervening even if it would surely mean his doom. She looked into his with similar fear, but only for a moment, then confusion. She craned her head just a bit before limply collapsing back down onto the forest floor, a hollow wheeze leaving her body. 

Before even realizing what he was doing, Di’Elgrin was already climbing back down the tree, his bag of hooch still in hand. He approached much like one would a wounded animal. With slow, calculated steps, freezing after every move, ready to dart back up into the safety of the tree should the woman make any move to attack him. Had the Night Elf been able to herself, it seemed she would have done the same by the way she watched him, cold and analytical, as if calculating his every action down to each and every little twitch of his weakened and starved body. 

“Nightborne…?” All Di’Elgrin could do was nod. “You have no weapon.” Her voice rasped, likely raw from shouting in a battle he’d not seen until she’d crossed the treeline. Her head turned, no, more rolled to the side, to her bow and quiver the Felborne ripped off of her. “My bow. Take it. Bring it here, and I will show you how to use it.” He’d never fired a bow before, he’d never even seen one in person until now, what did she expect him to do with it? Just the same he did so. This request, it would likely be her last. She wasn’t long of this world and was fading fast, her skin becoming shallow by the moment. 

He picked up the bow, it was intricate, a beautiful lavender wood with lichens and moss growing from it that seemed to just enhance the bow’s power rather than weaken it. Strings hung from the bowstring’s notches at the ends, decorated with talismans depicting Elune. Two large runes matched on each side that on closer inspection served both a symbolic and practical purpose- they were the sight for lining up the arrow but also a prayer to the lunar goddess in ancient writings so old he hardly recognized them at first. Di’Elgrin kneeled at her side, propping the woman up gently against his legs and cradled her as she weakly took the weapon from him. In hushed tones, likely as loud as she could muster with her fading strength, she told him how to use it. How to aim, to never fire without an arrow nocked, to keep his elbow tucked and the string drawn to his ear or cheek. Di’Elgrin didn’t understand why she was doing this. Even with the long lives of the Kal’dorei, the bow was clearly much older than she. An heirloom, perhaps. Something ancient and sacred. Why bestow it to him? 

He figured, sadly, that this Sentinel had no family to pass it down to. No spouse, no children. Not even an honored companion who would be worthy of it, but pride in her weapon’s legacy meant it had to be given to someone, even a complete stranger. With weak hands, she pushed the bow into his own, barely mumbling for him to try. He laid her down in a soft patch of grass, one not tainted with her blood and surrounded by wild dusklilies and took aim at the tree only moments ago he hid in like a coward. It was a clumsy shot, far lower than he would have liked, off center, but it struck deep into the wood despite his own weakness.

The woman smiled, saying he would grow into it, with time. Time she didn’t have. The only thing separating her from a corpse now was her stubborn refusal to close her eyes, refusal to let this breath be her last. Once more he kneeled beside her, clutching the bow to his chest and laid her head in his lap, brushing her bloodied hair out of her face.

“I do not know why you bestow this gift upon me, and I can’t take it without repaying you.” His words were barely louder than her own, his voice shushed with the grief he felt for this woman spending her dying moments with him. She tried to protest but he shook his head, once more reaching for his bag of liquor, made with wild berries and stolen spoiled fruit. 

“Please, at least share this drink with me, it is no arcwine, but you’ll find no better in these woods.” He held the bag to her lips and she laughed, quickly devolving into a cough. 

“A last drink, one you made yourself I can guess. I would have no higher honor ....?” Her voice trailed, but in a questioning tone unlike the exhaustion that filled it earlier. 

“Di’Elgrin. My last name is of no importance. I may as well not have one.” He answered.

“Di’Elgrin.” For the first time, a genuine smile however brief crossed her face and she took a large gulp, aided by him lifting the bag and allowing it to pour the liquor into her mouth. He took his own, cringing at the taste just as she did. For a moment, she seemed at peace, even as she said his brewing skills were terrible and that a murloc, whatever they may be, could make a better mead than he. He took no insult to it, the brew was quite awful but liquor was liquor, drink was drink.

“And what of you, Sentinel? What name may I remember this kind gift by?” Again he brushed the bloody hair from her face. She didn’t have much time left and the very least he could do beyond honor her final request was to remember her name, to tell others of her kindness and her bravery, no matter how little he knew of it.

“Jullas Stargrove, but why? I… I will be dead and cold before the moonrise, there is no need to know it.” The nightborne shook his head in disagreement. 

“It is only fair, you asked for mine.” She chuckled quietly, a wheezing hollow sound. “You honor me with your weapon, something I am far unworthy of when you could have given it to family, a friend, a comrade. I am undeserving of it. Let me at the least honor your name as well.”

She took quite a while before responding. Perhaps it was she was stunned by his words, as he’d like to think, rather than that dying was making it hard for her to think.

“...You are kind, nightborne. Kinder than most, to risk your own life to spend the last of a dying woman’s with her, when the Felborne could come back at any time and just as easily take yours.” It was a fact, they could. The Crimson Thicket was crawling with them these days and their traps. Especially as she attacked a good portion of one of their squadrons, if any had made it back to Suramar alive, surely they would come seeking to end her if she still lived or simply defile her corpse out of spite. Another ragged, wheezing cough broke her words. “If you were to carry on the legacy of my family’s name, I believe it would… fit you quite well.”

Her request was far beyond what he had even thought of. Di’Elgrin had thought perhaps he’d scream her name from the mountains, or a high rooftop and make sure everyone in Suramar knew it. He’d planned to tell anyone who so much as eyed the bow he would carry to his dying day of the woman who gave it to him, of her sacrifice. 

This was so much more than he could have known, and yet, how could he deny her.

“Di’Elgrin Stargrove… I suppose it does have a ring to it, Jullas.” He tried to ignore the tears pricking at his eyes and she squeezed his hand and smiled, asking for more of his hooch, no matter how awful it tasted. Until her last breath they sat beneath that tree, roots soaked with her blood, under the stars and getting as drunk as they could before she passed.

With time, her prediction proved correct. By the time the moon rose above the horizon, she was silent and cool to the touch, leaving the man whimpering like a child, clinging to the body of a woman who all he knew was her name. Solemnly and by hand, he dug at the roots of the tree after a wisp arose from her body and floated through the tree branches. It was a shallow grave, the best he could manage as he split his nails clawing at the earth cold and dampened with her blood. Perhaps when it was safer, he would return and give her a proper burial, a tombstone, an epitaph fitting of her. For now the only marker of her burial would be the arrow set deep into the wood by his clumsy shot, the significance only known to him and him alone.

Di’Elgrin, as a final touch, removed one of the strings with the Elune beads from the bow and tied it to the arrow, just past the fletchings. As footsteps once again came into the thicket, he retreated from it, hesitant to even look back at the shoddy grave with his new charge cradled in his arms. He would die before giving this bow to anyone, and anyone foolish enough to try and take it from him would find he would protect it with his life.

After all, he had made a promise.


End file.
